


Green, like your eyes

by LovelikeLou



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Break Up, Crying, Drinking Games, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Break Up, Smut, happy tears too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelikeLou/pseuds/LovelikeLou
Summary: Written for the "instead of dividing up the CD’s, let’s play a drinking game to determine who gets what (it may or may not end in sex)" break-up prompt fromthislist.





	Green, like your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> My first short fic & first time writing smut...   
> Kinda using this to practice the whole smut thing for my bigger fic so let's hope I'm good..   
> Please be kind! haha 
> 
> xx

"That's mine," Louis snaps, grabbing the CD from Harry's hands before he has the chance to properly look at the cover and quickly stacking it in the steadily filling box at his feet. He is grumpy. It is nothing Harry isn’t used to after they decided that neither of them was particularly happy in their relationship anymore, but it still hurts to be snapped at. They had been wonderful together, functioning like they were made for each other and Harry had always thought they would grow old together until things started to splinter. “Mine too,” Louis says, grabbing another two CD’s and a vinyl from the closet. “But this one is mine," Harry mutters a little less heated, carefully pressing a Fleetwood Mac vinyl against his chest. "That's ours," Louis corrects, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches Harry protectively hug the record. "Yeah, well, but my mum gave it to us," Harry protests with furrowed eyebrows, "so it's mine." 

Louis rolls his eyes so strongly it looks painful and huffs out a contemptuous scoff. “Whatever,” he says, randomly snatching two CD’s and a DVD box to put in his box. Harry swallows and places his vinyl on the coffee table, sitting down on the sofa to watch Louis sort through their massive CD collection with a little more aggression than seems good for the objects. "All this crap is yours," he says, pushing a stack of vinyls towards Harry with his foot. "Don't be so rough with them, be careful," Harry rushes worriedly, picking up the stack and taking them over to the other closet. It’s the one he would have liked to put their music collection form the very beginning, but Louis being bossy he had compromised. 

He takes out the bottle of whiskey they had bottled together on their holiday to Scotland. They label reads their names, intertwined by the ‘&’ symbol between it and two locked rings underneath. They’d bottled it with the intention of drinking it on their wedding night. Harry carefully slides the vinyls in their new place and holds up the bottle. "Lou?" He asks quietly, turning around to him. “Louis?" He says again when Louis doesn't look up from his frantic boxing. "What?" Annoyed blue eyes snap up to him and immediately sadden at the sight of the bottle. "Oh," he says, and for a second Harry can see a sliver of his own sadness through Louis’ harsh facade of anger. 

"What if instead of sorting CD's like bitter, old people, we play a drinking game to decide who gets what?" Harry offers. “It’s not like we will drink it at our wedding anymore anyway, is it?” he adds bitterly. 

Louis is sceptical, arms still crossed over his chest and staring at Harry with that disapproving look in his eyes. The last few months had been tough, filled with fights and tears and drama, but never in a million years had Harry expected to see Louis standing across from him with such disapproval and judgement written all over his face. “Forget it, just—“ he starts but Louis cuts him off, crossing the room and snatching the bottle from his hands. “No,” he says as he sits down on the floor at the coffee table. “Sounds like an idea,” he shrugs. Harry watches him sit there, legs crossed under himself and he can’t quite remember the amount of times he’s seen Louis sit like that, in that exact spot. 

“Get me two shot glasses.”

Louis’ demanding tone shakes Harry from the memory and he automatically spins into action, nearly stumbling over Louis’ box as he rushes to the kitchen to grab the glasses. He hesitates for a second, but then chooses their William and Kate shot glasses, knowing just how ridiculous Louis thinks they are. “There you go,” he smiles smugly, handing Louis the glasses and sitting down on the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table. Louis pulls a face at the glasses but fills them up without comment. “You’ll fuck up your back sitting there,” Louis says in a cocky tone. “Fuck off,” Harry rolls his eyes at him. “I know my own body, Louis,” he huffs, even though he knows that Louis is right. 

There is too much space between them, enough that it hurts Harry a little. The sofa behind Louis calls him longingly, wants him to fit into the space where he used to sit, with Louis on the floor between his legs, leaning back against the sofa. Harry would play with his hair, even make little braids in it when it was long enough, while Louis shouted at football matches on the television. He swallows and pushes down the feeling, leaning back against he armchair behind him. 

The sharp sound of glass sliding over glass scratches through the room and Harry is just in time to stop the full shot glass that Louis pushed his way over the table from toppling over the edge. “Jesus,” he huffs under his breath, ignoring Louis’ eye-roll. “Okay, this is how we’ll do it,” Louis tells him, filling his own glass. “You ask a question and I answer it, if I get it wrong, I drink,” he says, raising his glass to Harry before throwing it back, like Harry needs a tutorial on how to drink. “If I get it right,” he continues, “you drink and I get to pick something to put in my box or, in your case, that you get to keep in this house you’re already keeping.” 

Harry hums a little, ignoring the personal dig in his words. He picks up his glass and takes a tiny sip, tasting the whiskey they so carefully bottled together. Even though he isn’t a big whiskey fan, he has to admit that it tastes nice but he doesn’t get the chance to enjoy it before Louis cuts in again. “No baby sips Harry, we’re not fifteen,” he says and Harry shrinks a little under his hostile tone. 

“Okay, I will start,” Louis says, filling up his glass again. “What do I think is your most annoying habit?” he shoots and Harry frowns a little. It’s immediately clear that Louis doesn’t intend this game to be the most fun. He glances down at his glass, swooshing around the remaining liquid silently, thinking over the question. “Uh..” he starts, glancing up at Louis, “my OCD about cleaning the kitchen?” It’s a weak attempt but Harry doesn’t feel much for a real fight so early on in the night. Louis huffs like it’s the dumbest answer Harry could have given. “How is that annoying for me, just means I had zero cleaning to do,” he rolls his eyes and Harry pulls a face. “Then what it it?” he huffs with an offended pout. “That’s not part of the game, Harry,” Louis replies, reaching up to push his fringe behind his ear with a dainty flick of his wrist. Harry has to suppress a soft smile at the gesture and he quickly picks up his glass. 

“Fine,” he mutters and grimaces at the full shot of whiskey. It burns as it goes down and he places it down on the table more violently than strictly necessary. “Where did we go on our first date?” he asks, leaning back against the sofa behind him with a small smile. Although he sort of expected Louis not to know the answer, it still hurts a little when he shrugs and picks up his glass without attempting an answer. “It’s pathetic that you don’t know,” Harry frowns at him, crossing his arms over his chest and Louis glares at him. “I can’t remember every stupid, tiny, vegan restaurant in this goddamn city, Harold,” he snaps before takes the shot. The words cut into Harry’s chest and he feels a little nauseous at Louis’ absolute indifference. “Your turn,” he says quietly. 

Louis fills up both their glasses. “When we went to Paris that one time and you broke that fancy soap dispenser in the bathroom, what did I say to the hotel manager to stop them from giving us a massive bill?” he asks and Harry lets out a slightly offended huff. “That’s unfair, I don’t speak french,” he says with a slight pout. Louis flicks his fringe out of his eyes sassily. “Yeah, well, not exactly my problem is it, love?” he points out and Harry feels a little shock at the nickname. It feels like forever since Louis called him ‘love’. 

“Cheers!” Louis sarcastically raises his glass to Harry, watching silently as Harry closes his eyes and throws back the shot. “What’s my favourite colour?” Harry asks, the taste of whiskey still on his lips, the burn of it audible in his voice. Louis lets out a chuckle and beckons with his hand for Harry to give him his glass. “Really? That’s what you’re asking me?” he chuckles a little condescending as he fills up the glass. “It’s pink.” He gives the glass back to Harry, who places it in front of himself on the table carefully but Louis isn’t having it. “Drink up,” he nods to the glass, “I know it’s right, so you drink.” 

He gets up and walks over to the closet, pulling out a large stack of CD’s and taking them back to the table. He places them on the floor next to him and starts to sort through them and picking two from the stack and putting them in front of him on the table. “I choose these ones,” he clarifies. Harry doesn’t feel like fighting the fact that he picked two items for one right answer. Instead he throws back the shot without complaint. The whiskey hardly burns him anymore, his throat already used to it.

“What’s the most petty thing you’ve ever done in our relationship?” Louis asks him next. His tone is taunting, eyebrow raised sassily as he leans back against the sofa, lips pursed. It makes Harry feel cold and he protectively crosses his arms over his chest. “Your questions are stupid, they’re too subjective,” he protests weakly. “How’m I supposed to know the answer,” he mutters with a pout, unable to look at Louis’ sharp eyes. “I don’t care,” Louis snaps, crossing his arms too and cocking his head to the side a little, clearly ready to pick the fight if Harry wants to. “They’re my questions, stop telling me what to ask and answer them,” he says sharply and Harry sighs deeply, shrugging helplessly. 

He frowns down at his glass a bit before he takes the shot, not even wanting to try at the answer. “Can’t we ask somewhat nicer things?” he mutters, glancing up at Louis. “Like, maybe, what do I think is the most attractive about you?” he offers, shifting a little bit where he is sitting. Sitting on the floor is hurting his back but he is too petty to give in to it and sit on the sofa, not wanting to give Louis the satisfaction. 

For a second something uncertain washes over Louis’ face. He sits up a bit and carefully tucks his fringe away from his forehead, eyes lowered to his lap. “Well,” he murmurs, glancing up at Harry again and shrugging awkwardly. “Me bum?” he offers, tilting his head just slightly. It’s a gesture that Harry knows all too well, indicating that he isn’t entirely sure of his own words and Harry feels a nostalgic fondness spread through him at the vulnerability of it. “Wrong,” he informs him with a soft smile.

His favourite part of Louis is his eyes, so endlessly blue and wrinkling adorably when he smiles. They show the softness that hides underneath Louis’ harsh outward act, the caring, little boy inside him that Harry loves so much. 

Louis pulls an offended face like there is no way he answered the question incorrectly. “Well then what is it?” he asks, uncrossing his arms and leaning back on his hands. His body language doesn’t match his tone, too soft and questioning for the sharpness of his voice. “That’s not part of the game, Louis,” Harry serves him a taste of his own medicine, unable to help the smug smile on his face. He can see Louis struggling to bite his tongue but he stays quiet, washing down his words with the shot of whiskey. Louis’ next question comes immediately, significantly nicer than the ones he’d asked before. “What’s my favourite holiday with you?” Harry tuts his tongue softly. “Still too subjective, but fine,” he mutters under his breath. 

“Piss off,” Louis shoots at him, “you don’t own this game, Harry.” The words feel softer than they are through the alcohol and Harry leans his head back on the sofa seat behind him. The ceiling looks weird when he looks at it from this angle. “Maybe when we went camping in Sweden?” he tries. His curls fall in front of his eyes when he looks back at Louis but he doesn’t make an effort to push them out of his face. Louis shakes his head. “Do I get CD’s for each time you fuck up a question too?” he asks sarcastically, sliding a full glass over to Harry again. Harry moans softly, sitting up to take the glass and nipping at the dark liquid. “No nipping!” Louis exclaims, sitting up more and waving a hand at Harry as if that will stop him. “Nobody said you have to shot it and I want to savour the taste,” Harry says cockily, pulling his legs from underneath him and hugging them to his chest as he sips the whiskey. He doesn’t particularly enjoy it, never liked the taste of whiskey so much but it’s worth the look on Louis’ face. 

He is beautiful, even like this, with his eyebrows knitted together and his lips pulled in that tight line of annoyance. His shirt shows off his dainty collarbones and Harry wants to lick them, wants to bury his face in the crook of Louis’ neck and feel him shiver when he sucks on his skin. “What’s my favourite thing during sex?” he asks then, throwing back the last of the glass to avoid catching Louis’ eye in response to the question. “What?” Louis huffs out on a slight laugh, watching Harry with a gentle smile and slightly raised eyebrows. “Did I stutter?” Harry speaks, the most sassy he can manage. Louis chuckles slightly and shakes his head a bit. The smile on his face is almost fond when he answers, “no, but you slurred a little.” 

Before Harry can protest Louis cuts him off. “Handcuffs,” he says and Harry almost shivers at the word. “Your favourite thing is when I tie you up and I make you beg for it,” Louis says without moving a muscle. It raises the blood to Harry’s cheeks and pools a longing desire in his belly. Louis fills his glass with a cocky smirk, leaning over the table to hand it to Harry. “Just drink it, we both know I’m right,” he teases and Harry does as he’s told, putting the glass down on the table after and pressing his cool hands against his burning cheeks to hide his blush. 

“My turn,” Louis says after he places another CD on his stack. “Ask me something easy, I’ve had much more to drink than you,” Harry pleads, feeling the control starting to slip from him with how tipsy he feels. “Fine, okay, you know this one,” Louis says with a soft nod. “What song do I want to play at my wedding?” he asks. It’s soft and it burns Harry, but at least he knows the answer. Louis had told him so many times in mumbled pillow talk or over sunset champagne dates. “Come Away With Me, by Norah Jones,” he answers, waiting for Louis to pour himself a glass before he reaches over and takes the bottle. 

He is drunk. Drunk enough that he can't feel his lips anymore and the warmth of the room seems to cling to his body. Drunk enough that the question hurts him more than the burning whiskey as he drinks straight from the bottle “Oi!” Louis exclaims, reaching over and snatching the bottle from his hands with a disapproving frown. “Give me that,” he tuts bossily, but there is an edge of worry to the words. “Now,” he smiles, too brightly for how Harry feels. “Finally,” he says as he holds his hand out to the stack of CD’s. He tries to make light of the situation, tries to lift the mood and it’s so Louis. “Just take what you want Harry.” He snaps his fingers in front of Harry’s face when he doesn’t respond. 

Harry wants Louis. Out of everything in this room, the thing he wants most is Louis. His sunshine. His little ball of fierce, fiery energy. His boy who's looking at him with those sea-blue eyes under perfect eyebrows. He wants Louis and he wants to play that song at their wedding but instead he crawls over to the stacks of CD’s. He picks one without even looking, putting it to the side but not moving back to his seat. 

He has to keep it up, has to play the game because it doesn’t matter that he wants Louis when Louis doesn’t want him anymore. “What’s my favourite drink?” he asks dryly and Louis huffs out a laugh. “Easy, raspberry daiquiri,” he says and Harry groans. He leans over the table to retrieve his glass and waits for Louis to fill it. “M’drunk,” he grimaces after he swallows the shot. 

Louis laughs and Harry wants to feel the sound in his own body. He wants to lean into Louis, wants to bury his nose in the dip of his neck and shoulder, inhale the familiar scent there. He wants to suck his bottom lip until it’s swollen, wants to taste the whiskey in his mouth, wants to fit his fingers in the spaces between his ribs, feel his — “You’re staring,” Louis says softly. Harry looks up, meeting surprisingly soft blue eyes. “Yeah,” he answers quietly, looking down at his own hands and twisting his rings around his fingers.

He glances up at Louis again. “What’s my favourite colour?” Louis asks him, blue eyes staring into his own. Something is different about those eyes. Something less sharp and more longing, something that reminds Harry of the way Louis used to look at him. “Green,” he replies breathlessly, not breaking their eye contact. “Green,” Louis agrees, “like your eyes.” The air feels heavy and Harry feels the desire build up under his ribs as Louis keeps looking at him like that. 

“What do you want Harry?” The question hardly registers in Harry’s mind before the answer leaves his mouth. “You,” he whispers, swallowing as he lets his eyes drop to Louis’ lips. “All I want is you,” he breathes and his eyes flash up to Louis’ again. “Can I—”

Before he can finish the question Louis’s lips cut him off. He knocks over the stack of CD’s between them in his haste to crawl into Harry’s lap. Harry’s hands find their way onto his hips like muscle memory. He tilts his head back, moaning into Louis’ mouth when he feels his hand on his jaw, thumb pressed down lightly against his windpipe as they kiss. The gesture seats a tingling feeling through Harry’s body, a breathless sense of need pulsing through his veins. 

He feels possibly more drunk like this, drunk on Louis, on the desire that spreads through his body under his touch. He licks up into Louis’ mouth, pulling him impossibly closer because he needs to have this, needs to experience every second of this to the fullest. He doesn’t care if it will make everything more painful in the morning, if it’s only a one-time thing, post-breakup sex, right now he needs this, needs Louis. 

Louis’ thighs lock tighter around his waist, rolling down against him with the same sense of need and if Harry’s brain had any space for analysis, it’s all gone now. He gasps up into Louis’ mouth, tilting his head back against the sofa to expose more of his throat to Louis’ cool fingers and pushing his own hands up under Louis’ shirt to feel the golden softness of his skin. It all feels so natural, so familiar that it hurts. But it hurts so nice and Harry couldn’t stop if he tried. 

Louis’ fingers are soon replaced with his lips and Harry digs his nails into the small of Louis’ back when he sinks his teeth into his neck. His mouth is bound to leave a mark and Harry doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that. He doesn’t have to choose because his tears are faster than his brain, a quiet sob breaking from his throat followed by burning tears running down his already hot cheeks. He wants this mark, wants to have a sign that he is Louis’, but the problem is that he no longer is. 

“You can’t—” he chokes tearfully against Louis’ lips when they press over his own again. Too-gentle thumbs wipe at his ugly tears. “What?” Louis breathes softly against his mouth, hot breath fans out over Harry’s spit-wet lips. He sounds breathless, filled with desire and want the way Harry feels and Harry can’t help but press up against his lips again, tasting his own tears and snot and spit on Louis’ lips. The kiss is more tender now, more loving and soft than it was before and Louis’ thumbs are still wiping at his cheeks. Lips replace the thumbs and Harry tilts his head to chase Louis’ lips. 

“Lou,” he whispers, not caring about the pathetic, begging edge to his voice. “You’re drunk,” Louis pulls back a little. His eyes are blue when they meet Harry’s, so blue and so bloody sad and Harry shakes his head, not wanting to stop now. “No,” he sniffles, reaching up to cup Louis’ cheek, trying to pull him back down. “Not that drunk, Louis, please.”

“You’re crying,” Louis whispers, his own eyes dangerously watery. “I never meant to make you cry,” he says softly and Harry sits up to press his lips to Louis’ again, a fleeting kiss before he drops his head to hide his face in the crook of Louis’ neck. “S’okay,” he murmurs, shivering when Louis presses his thumb over the fresh love bite on his throat. “You can’t mark me and leave again tomorrow, Louis, but please—” he breathes, sitting up again and pressing his forehead against Louis’. He wants to kiss him again, can’t stop now that he had a taste, doesn’t want to stop now when this might be the very last time he gets to taste Louis, feel him, breathe him in. “Please,” he whispers again, and then Louis’ hands are back on his waist, pushing his chest to lay him down against the floor and Harry goes easily, pulling Louis’ mouth down against his own with a wanting moan. 

His legs wrap around Louis and he gasps when Louis grinds down against him. “M’not,” Louis breathes into his mouth, hands pushed under Harry’s shirt. The words almost get lost in the mind-numbing bolt of desire that shoots through Harry’s body when Louis flicks his thumb over his nipple. He gasps and presses his hips up into Louis, tilting his head back, their mouths disconnecting. “Not what?” Harry manages breathlessly, wide-blown eyes staring up at Louis above him. He is surrounded by a halo of soft, yellow, living room light, his lips slightly swollen from kissing and he’s so beautiful. “Leaving,” Louis says, and for a second all Harry can hear is Louis’ breathing and his own, pounding heartbeat. 

It feels unreal, like a trick of his drunken mind and Harry tries to pull him down against him again, wanting to kiss the words out of his mouth, taste them on his tongue to feel their truth. “I love you,” Louis breathes above him, resisting Harry’s pull. “I love you Harry, I love everything about you, from your OCD kitchen habits to your clumsiness and—” 

Harry doesn’t let him finish, finally breaking Louis’ resistance and pulling him down to kiss again, hands tangling in his hair and legs wrapping around his waist. He is crying again, but it doesn’t matter because Louis’ lips chase the tears, over the bow of his cheek to the cut of his jaw, biting them into the skin of his neck and this time Harry lets him, tilting his head back to receive the love bites. He tightens his fingers in his hair, pressing Louis against him like he wants their bodies to melt together as one. Louis’ nose presses into the dip of his collarbone, hungry hands pulling down the collar of his shirt to kiss over the exposed skin and Harry rocks his hips up against the solid weight on top of him. “Stay,” he gasps when Louis sits up again, pushing Harry’s shirt up to his armpits and fitting his mouth over his nipple, biting down sharp enough for Harry to gasp and let out a broken whine. “Louis—“ he gasps. 

“M’not leaving,” Louis presses into his skin. He pins one of Harry’s wrists up above his head and Harry melts against the floor. “Don’t even know where the fuck I’d go, m’nothing without you,” Louis kisses against his sternum. Harry’s heart clenches a little at the words. He hates when Louis does that, how he talks himself down when he is the absolute world, like pure sunlight that Harry had to go without for way too long. He tells him as much, voice raw and ragged when he spills the words as he presses himself up into Louis. “Don’t want you to leave, you’re the fucking sun, Louis,” he says and Louis laughs, the sound muffled in Harry’s shoulder and Harry wraps his arms around him. It’s a beautiful sound, so pure and Harry has missed it so much. 

“You’re definitely drunk,” Louis whispers into his skin, that same laugh clinging to the words and Harry feels like he might burst with how much he loves him. 

Their fingers tangle together next to Harry’s head, mouths hungrily biting against each other. “I love you,” Harry spills out, breathless and honest and swallowed in Louis’ kiss when their lips press together again. “Need you.” He wraps his legs around Louis’ waist. “Want you, Louis please take me upstairs, wanna feel you again.” 

Neither of them can keep their hands off each other when they climb the stairs. Harry presses Louis into the wall next to their room, pressing their chests together through too many layers of clothing and kissing him, one hand already working on Louis’ fly. Louis blindly fumbles for the door knob, managing it open and pulling Harry inside, walking backwards towards the bed. “Fucking finally take this off,” Louis mutters, pushing at Harry’s shirt and watching hungrily as he pulls it over his head before he pushes him onto the bed. “Missed you, Lou,” Harry whines softly, fumbling with the button of his fly as he watches Louis undress. His mind feels too clouded to focus, useless hands working on his own fly before Louis slaps them away and pulls down his skinnies. 

Harry lets himself be manhandled onto his front, pushing his head into the pillow to muffle his whine as Louis’ mouth presses over the knobs of his spine, kissing each one before he pulls down Harry’s boxers. “Yes,” Harry hisses, pushing himself up on his knees and elbows and arching his back for Louis. The scruff of Louis’ beard scratches over the tentative skin of his arse and Harry’s legs slide wider onto the mattress, a choked moan muffled into the sheets.

Louis’ tongue burns him when he finally licks over his hole, sending shivers through Harry’s entire body and he pushes into him instinctively. “Fuck me,” he chokes, feeling Louis’ tongue circle over the rim and he reaches one hand back blindly, grasping on to Louis’ wrist. 

Louis calmly tangles his fingers with Harry’s, squeezing reassuringly before he presses his tongue inside Harry, and Harry squeezes back so tightly he thinks he might break Louis’ fingers. He muffles his broken moans into the pillow as Louis fucks him with his tongue, so wet with spit that Harry can feel it drip down from his rim to his balls and he knows he won’t last like this. “Lou, God, Louis,” he rambles on a moan, choking on a whimper when Louis pulls away and flips him over. 

He can taste himself on Louis’ tongue when they kiss, turning his head away on a gasp when Louis presses a finger inside, sliding just slick enough with his spit. “Bedside,” Harry chokes breathlessly, blindly reaching over but dropping his arm to the mattress when Louis’ presses his thumb down against his rim. The burn is delicious, just edging on uncomfortable but Harry knows that Louis knows what he’s doing, would trust him with his life. 

The sound of the bottle warns him but the coldness of the lube still makes him shiver, his cock spurting a bubble of pre-cum when Louis presses two fingers back inside, scissoring them immediately. “I Love you,” Louis presses on a kiss against his knee, a third finger teasing at Harry’s rim and Harry moans when it enters. He is so close, but he wants so much more. “Need you, want you, Louis,” he rambles, throwing one arm over his face to swallow the sounds of his moans when Louis curls his fingers just right. He pushes is chest up into Louis’ hands when he fits his fingers in the spaces between Harry’s ribs. “Please, please, please,” he begs, trying to close his legs around Louis to hold back the heat pooling in his belly. He wants Louis, wants to feel him everywhere and he lets out a pleased sigh when Louis pulls out his fingers. 

“Do I need..” Louis’ words break through the cloud of desire and Harry lifts his head to look a him. “No,” he grunts at the condom wrapper in Louis’ hand, not sure where he even got that from. “I haven’t been with anybody else, I wouldn’t..” he breathes, spreading his legs easily when Louis fits between them again. “Me neither,” Louis breathes down at him, the slick sound of his hand spreading the lube over himself drawing a keening sound from Harry again. The sound is cut off abruptly when Louis presses the head against his entrance. “Yes,” Harry hisses, “yes, Louis, do it, please.” 

The burn when Louis enters him is delicious and Harry lets his head loll back against the pillow, hands coming up to tangle in Louis’ hair when he attaches his mouth to Harry’s neck again. He immediately sets a relentless pace, snapping his hips into Harry so deep it knocks the air from his lungs. It’s everything Harry has missed and it would have been enough to send him over the edge but Louis wraps his hand around him nonetheless, jerking him off in time with his thrusts and Harry feels overwhelmed with the sensations. 

It’s only seconds before he is coming, spilling all over Louis’ hand and his own tummy, clenching around Louis when he feels him pulse inside him. Louis collapses on top of him, breath warm and snappy against Harry’s neck. They lay like that for a moment, both catching their breath and Harry’s hands carefully twirling the strands of Louis’ hair around his fingers. He winces when Louis shifts his hips and slips out of him, everything sensitive now that the burning desire has calmed a little. 

“We’ll shower in the morning yeah?” Louis murmurs, sliding off Harry to lay down next to him on the bed, his arm draping heavily over Harry’s cum-stained tummy. “In the morning,” Harry repeats with a soft smile, so happy to hear those words from Louis’ mouth again and he presses a kiss to the top of his head, reaching a hand to the tissues on the nightstand and wiping himself down. “Yeah,” Louis sighs sleepily, pressing his lips lazily against Harry’s ribs, eyes already closed. “In the morning.”


End file.
